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Updated: May 27, 2025
"If you touch a hair of Don Silverio's head, or the hem of his cassock, I will burn Ruscino," said Adone to one of those who had threatened his friend, "and you will all burn with it, for the river will not help you; the river will turn to oil and make the flames rage tenfold." The people were afraid as they heard him, for the wrath of the gentle is terrible from its rarity.
Do you imagine you can meet and beat such antagonists with a few rusty muskets, a few beardless boys, a poor little girl like Nerina?" Don Silverio's voice was curt, imperious, sardonic; his sentences cut like whips; then after a moment of silence his tone changed to an infinite softness and sweetness of pleading and persuasion.
Dreaming is no rest. He is always dreaming, and now he dreams of blood and fire." Don Silverio's heart was with them, and by all the obligations of his calling was forced to be against them.
"How know you that, reverend? You are a priest, not a man." A faint red colour came over Don Silverio's colourless face. "One may be both," he said simply. "You are distraught, my son, by a great calamity. Try and see yourself as other see you, and do not lead the poor and ignorant into peril. Will the Edera waters be freer because your neighbours and you are at the galleys?
The river brought her." He credited the river with a more than human sagacity. He held it in awe and in reverence as a deity, as the Greeks of old held their streams. It would have drowned the child, he thought, if she had been an evil creature or of evil augury. But he did not say so, for he did not care to provoke Don Silverio's fine fleeting ironical smile.
He paused again, for he did not see upon Don Silverio's countenance that flattered and rejoiced expression which he expected; there was even upon it a look of scorn. He regretted that he had said so much. "I thank your Excellency for so benevolent an interest in my poor personality," said Don Silverio. "But with the King's government I have nothing to do.
The air was full of clangour and clamour; above all rose the shrill screams of the women. "No one passes," said the sentinel, and he levelled the mouth of his musket at Don Silverio's breast. "I pass," said the priest, and with his bare hand he grasped the barrel of the musket and forced it upward.
"May it not well be, sir, that Don Silverio's organisation or suggestion is underneath this insurrectionary movement of the young men in the Valdedera?" "It is possible; yes. See to it." "Your servant, sir." Sarelli withdrew, elated. He loved tracking, like a bloodhound, for the sheer pleasure of the "cold foot chase."
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